


Sin From My Lips

by Icarus5800



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Christian guilt, Javert hating him for it, M/M, Post-Seine, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Valjean being awkward about feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-28
Updated: 2013-03-31
Packaged: 2017-12-06 19:39:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/739366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Icarus5800/pseuds/Icarus5800
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A.K.A. Five Times Valjean and Javert Almost First-Kissed and One Time They Did</p><p>In which Valjean is an indecisive coward and Javert is a seductive bastard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> Dear hoflords,
> 
> Since the story I promised you is taking longer than expected, please accept this as my apology.
> 
> Yours,  
> Icarus
> 
> (This is my first story written in Valjean's POV. I hope I didn't mess up too much.)

5.

The fever is at last broken.

The Jean Valjean of Toulon would never have believed that the day will come when he could feel so much relief at the certainty that the hound of the law who has always pursued him is going to live and dog his heels once more.

Perhaps, he muses, he may take this as proof that he is indeed a changed man.

Despite what he has told the inspector, doubts still haunt him in his darkest hours. He will likely never be certain of the truth of his own reformation until he has entered the Kingdom of Heaven…or its opposite.

The figure on the bed stirs, and a scratchy voice croaks out, “Water…”

He helps the inspector to sip from a glass. Stray droplets run down his chin and onto his neck. Unthinkingly, he tries to wipe them away with his thumb, and brushes against Inspector Javert’s lower lip.

The lips are flushed from fever, and invitingly moist.

An altogether frightful urge seizes him then, and he almost stumbles in his haste to back away.

_Our Father who art in Heaven, Hallowed be thy Name…_

No, no, no. Valjean shakes his head desperately, as if that would somehow fling the unwelcome thoughts away. Seeing that the inspector has fallen back to sleep, he flees the room.

Perhaps he has not changed as much as he thinks…as he would like to believe.

In that one terrifying moment, he had wanted to press those lips with his own.

4.

Inspector Javert leans heavily against him as he practices walking again after so long abed with a leg injury. One of the inspector’s arms is wrapped around his shoulders, the other hand gripping the head of the cane so tightly that had he been Jean Valjean the knob would have been crushed. Valjean’s own arm is wound around Javert’s waist to steady the man, or so he tells himself.

He cannot help but notice how thin Javert is; concern and disapproval bubbles up in him, and he resolves to feed the man more.

He tries to disregard the heat pressing against him, or the fact that Inspector Javert is in his shirtsleeves.

It’s almost worse than nothing at all.

_…Thy Kingdom come, thy Will be done…_

Javert misjudges his step and falls against the wall of the sitting room, pulling Valjean with him.

For one brief instant, their bodies are moulded to each other’s, their noses touching, lips impossibly close. Valjean longs to become closer.

Javert’s eyelids flutter shut.

Valjean takes a step back.

_…On Earth as it is in Heaven…_

“Forgive me, Inspector. That was clumsy of me.”

“Will you never stop taking the faults of others upon your own shoulders, man?”

Javert shakes his head in exasperation. Valjean manages a chuckle in response.

The man is a friend, nothing more.

3.

Inspector Javert has returned to his post.

He has also returned to his own home.

This should not bring a curious sense of loss to Valjean’s heart, as one cannot lose what one has never possessed.

He cannot account for the swell of unbridled joy he felt when the man agreed to occasionally come over for supper.

It is natural to be glad to see a friend. It is natural.

_…Give us this day our daily bread…_

There is jam on Javert’s lips and the corner of his mouth. Strawberry jam. Crimson, the colour of blood and sin.

He desires to taste the sin of Javert’s lips.

He is aware of the intensity of his gaze, but before he can glance away, Javert’s tongue darts out to lick away the si—the jam, it is nothing more than jam, damn it; and Valjean is once more riveted.

His breath hitches. His fingers twitch. Blood rushes to unmentionable places.

He excuses himself to fetch the wine from the cellar.

_…And forgive us our trespasses…_

He does not partake of the liquor.

2.

They walk through Paris at night, Javert patrolling despite being off duty, Valjean giving alms to the poor and needy, trying to ignore his companion’s rant concerning his charity.

A glint of steel is all the warning they receive before they are set upon by a group of men, intent upon Valjean’s purse. This little merry band of robbers failed to take note of his superhuman strength or Javert’s excellent training, however, and is soon beaten back, but not before leaving a gash in the inspector’s arm.

Valjean entreats the stubborn man to follow him home and allow him to tend to the wound. Javert gives in. He seems to be doing that a lot lately.

Valjean decides to chalk it up to his aging memory.

_…As we forgive those who trespass against us…_

Afterwards, they sip brandy before the fire, each lost in his own thoughts. Valjean speaks first.

“My sincerest apologies, Inspector.”

“Hmm? What for?”

Valjean gestures at the bandaged wound, “This is entirely my fault, and for that I am sorry.”

“Don’t be. It is a result of your charity. And I, who have far too often benefited from your charity, can hardly begrudge others the chance.”

“Javert…” He will tell the man that it was not because of charity that he spared him on the barricade, nor for charity that he fished him from the Seine, or nursed him back to health, but the words do not come. If not charity, what else? That is a question on which he does not dare think too deeply. Instead, he keeps the conversation on a safer topic, “That is not what you said earlier, Inspector. I recall you were quite vocal and passionate in your denunciation of my charity.”

“That? Force of habit.”

However does he put up with such a moody and idiosyncratic man?

“Nevertheless, the man was aiming for me. I should have paid the price for my own carelessness. I must thank you, dear friend.”

“I owe you much.”

“You owe me nothing.” Valjean frowns, then asks a touch uneasily, “Is that why you took the knife for me? To pay back a perceived debt?”

Silence stretches on for so long that Valjean has almost given up hope for an answer, when Javert whispers, “No, I did not do it for debt. I simply cannot bear to see you come to harm.” He glances up at him through his lashes, “I would do anything for you, Jean Valjean.”

Is that something friends say to each other? He wouldn't know. He has never had a friend before.

The firelight is too flattering on the inspector's features, softening the harsh lines, accentuating the pale red of his cheeks and his lips. He knows that he should not notice these things about a friend.

_…And lead us not into Temptation…_

He moves away to prevent himself from moving closer.

“It is late. I should be gone.”

“Goodnight, Inspector.”

The inspector does not return his benediction.

1.

Cosette is married. He is alone.

He does not move, he does not read, he does not live. He simply sits in his chair, and exists.

Until Inspector Javert shows up at his door to drag him out for a walk. He is too tired to put up much of a resistance.

He hopes he will not be too tired to resist other things.

The spring air reinvigorates his spirit. They walk in companionable silence.

An undetermined amount of time passes before they reach the bench where he and Cosette used to sit. The memory of Cosette no longer brings as sharp a pang to his old, frail heart as it did just hours ago.

It is natural to find warmth and comfort in a friend. Even as cold a one as the irreproachable Inspector Javert.

His friend speaks of the force, of the cases he is following, of anything under the sun. Valjean listens.

He makes the mistake of looking over. The inspector’s words become a soothing blur in the background, and he finds himself longing for terrible things. There is no excuse this time. No water to make the lips shine with the lustre of the forbidden fruit, no accidental proximity that quickens his pulse and makes his vision swim, no bright red jam painted on those naturally pale lips, no sweet, ambiguous, damning words.

He is lost.

_…But deliver us from Evil…_

He is glad they are in a public place.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your kind and lovely and amazing comments! It's because of you that this is more than literally eight words long. As well, my eternal gratitude to the wonderful Carmarthen for condescending to beta this chapter.

Somehow it has become a nightly ritual now for Jean Valjean to read to Inspector Javert in front of the fireplace at 7 Rue de l’Homme Armé.

It began when the inspector started showing up at Valjean’s door every evening, “to ensure that you do not starve your idiotic self to death,” according to that dear friend. Valjean did not mind, since it meant that he was given the opportunity to bestow—or rather, to impose his hospitality more often upon that very obstinate man. Despite the inspector’s insistence that he had already eaten, Valjean refused to sup unless the other shared his table, and Javert had acquiesced in the interest of keeping the older man alive.

It had been almost comical, at first. Valjean would take one spoonful of stew or one morsel of bread only after Javert did the same, and refuse to take another until Javert did. Each of his bites was curiously equal to Javert’s in size.

Once, Inspector Javert sat through the entire evening without touching his food, arms crossed over his chest, fearsome scowl etched onto his features, ferocious glare fixed upon Valjean’s carefully innocent countenance. A lesser man would have been intimidated beyond measure. Valjean met the glare with a calm gaze of his own. He ate nothing that night.

The next day, they resumed their routine.

After a while, Javert even managed to convince Valjean to set the pace of their meals on alternating nights.

This strange supper ritual persisted until Javert at last gave up resistance and ingested whatever was placed on his plate without complaint, without once glancing at his host, and Valjean relaxed to finish his meal at a more leisurely pace.

When it came to obstinacy, these two men were quite evenly matched.

Inspector Javert’s selfless act of surrender cleared away the formerly tense atmosphere of the dining room. Their shared evening meals became no longer a contest of wills or a battle of patience, but an enjoyable occasion between friends. Gradually, they ceased to chew in stilted silence, and conversations initiated by one party or another started filling the room, first careful, then more bold. Their mutual past was discussed, debated, analyzed, and accepted with good grace on both their parts. Their separate pasts were hesitantly shared over wine, that wondrous agent of spontaneity and destroyer of inhibitions.

It was through one such supper discourse that Valjean learned of Javert’s habit of forcing himself to read for the sake of personal improvement, despite harbouring a great dislike for reading, and for books and literature in general. An impulse had overtaken the old man then, and he offered to read to Javert his favourite works. To his surprise, Javert had accepted.

From that day forth, Inspector Javert’s visits extended long after the dishes were cleared from the dining room table.

When he had inadvertently stayed too late one night, Valjean offered the use of his guest bedroom.

That, too, had been accepted.

~ * ~

Valjean is roused from his unmoving contemplation of the crucifix upon his wall by a strong, rhythmic knocking on the door, and with a jolt he realizes that the sun has set.

The door opens to reveal the expected figure of Inspector Javert. Valjean is much gratified to note that his friend has gained some weight, no longer appearing as malnourished and worryingly skeletal as he once did.

If the inspector’s better-muscled physique has other unlooked-for effects upon him…well. It is a small price to pay for a dear friend’s health.

Besides, he is master of his own body. He will not succumb to temptation, and even worse—drag his friend down into the bottomless pit of sin with him.

It is winter, and the night is uncommonly cold. Inspector Javert declines the offer to take his coat.

They sup, as they always did, on a warm, simple meal that the portress has prepared in advance. The inspector appears surprisingly agitated and absentminded, quite unlike his customary focused self.

“Is a particularly troublesome case bothering you, Javert?”

“What?” A pause. Then, “No.”

They speak no more during supper that night.

~ * ~

Jean Valjean refuses to light a fire for himself, claiming that his constitution is strong enough to withstand winter cold as well as summer heat. It is only during their reading hours that a fire dances in the sitting room.

With a full stomach and a bit of wine, Inspector Javert appears somewhat more relaxed in his seat before the fire than at the supper table. Though still ignorant of the cause of the man’s initial disquietude, Valjean is glad to note the change.

Just as he is about to rise and retrieve a book from the shelf, a hand on his arm stills him, and Javert slips a slim volume out from the pocket of his voluminous greatcoat. 

Valjean raises an eyebrow at this unusual occurrence.

“I tire of your philosophy. I suggest a change of pace,” his friend says with a smirk that contains the slightest hint of a tremor. “I have enjoyed your recitations for far too long. Please, allow me to reciprocate.”

Curious and pleasantly surprised, Valjean gives his consent.

Little does he know that this will be his undoing.

Javert opens the book to a certain page, and begins to read. The very first word catches Valjean utterly off guard.

_“Love is a fire that burns unseen,_  
 _a wound that aches yet isn’t felt,_  
 _an always discontent contentment,_  
 _a pain that rages without hurting…”_

“Javert…” What is it that he wishes to say? Please stop? Please continue? He cannot seem to remember.

Heedless of his discomfort, Javert keeps on reading.

_“…a longing for nothing but to long,_  
 _a loneliness in the midst of people,_  
 _a never feeling pleased when pleased,_  
 _a passion that gains when lost in thought.”_

Sometime during the second verse, Javert’s gaze is no longer on the book. His dark eyes are trained on Valjean’s all the while he speaks. He does not once glance at the page. Valjean is helpless to look away.

The inspector’s voice has become slower now, more deliberate, driving each line into him with the ruthlessness and precision of a master swordsman.

_“It’s being enslaved of your own free will…”_

Valjean’s hands tremble. He grips the armrests of his seat until his hands begin to ache, unspeakably grateful for that distraction.

_“…it’s counting your defeat a victory…”_

His mind recalls all the struggles between them through the years. In the end, who has defeated whom? He does not know.

_“…it’s staying loyal to your killer.”_

He remembers Javert’s first words to him when the inspector had regained full consciousness after his encounter with the Seine. _You have killed me, Jean Valjean._

He dares not recognize the emotion that Javert’s candid eyes cannot hide, the same emotion that swells in his own breast.

He is aware of his breath growing rapid, the deafening pounding of his heart, the sluggishness of his thoughts. He swallows. His collar feels suddenly too tight. He undoes the first button.

He regrets it instantly when he sees Javert’s gaze shift to that exposed patch of skin. He feels as if he is being burned alive.

Distantly, he perceives that Javert’s voice has a deeper timbre than his own.

That voice is an inducement to sin. As are the lips from which the dangerous words emerge.

His eyes close, that he may shut out the world. He bites down on his lower lip hard enough to taste blood, and is glad that the blood is his own.

It is natural to love a friend.

It is natural…

It is natural…

For God’s sake, this is not natural!

It is not natural to feel an irresistible desire to seize a friend by the collar and kiss him. It is not natural to experience such an attachment to a friend, to wish to keep him within sight forever and always. It is not natural to need to rip open all his layers of clothing with devastating strength and see him completely bared and exposed.

It is not natural to want to lie with him in such a way as a man should only want with a woman.

It is not natural.

He is not natural.

He is not conscious of standing up, or of moving to the furthest end of the room from Javert.

He fixes his eyes upon the crucifix, and prays, and resolutely does not turn back.

“Must you always run away?” Javert’s voice holds the barest edge of pain and a sense of profound regret for the time that they have lost.

“Must you always pursue me?” Valjean feels only defeat. He had thought that he can at last be free of the dangerous chase. Yet defeat can also be a kind of victory.

“You leave me no choice.”

Valjean is silent.

When Javert next speaks, his voice is much closer than expected. His hot breath ghosts against Valjean’s ear, sending shivers down his spine.

_“But if it’s so self-contradictory,_  
 _how can Love, when Love chooses,_  
 _bring human hearts into sympathy?”_

Valjean turns around. He finds himself trapped between the wall and the tall figure of Javert. Or perhaps not trapped. He knows that Javert cannot stop him should he truly desire to escape. But he is trapped. By his own heart.

He is enslaved of his own free will.

Their lips meet.

Jesus Christ on a cross hangs overhead.

This is sin.

He had wanted for so long to taste the sin of Javert’s lips.

“And yet the sin is not on your lips, but in my soul.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem is by Luís Vaz de Camões, from Sonetos de Camões, recommended by hoflords. Certain lines feel so relevant to Valjean and Javert's relationship that I had to use it. (And no, I don't think it was available in France at that time, but...artistic license?) EDIT: I just did some research, and found out that the poet lived from 1524 to 1580, so it may actually have been accessible to our favourite Frenchmen. The original poem is in Portuguese, and I was unable to find the name of this particular translator. If anyone knows, please tell me.
> 
> Thanks to Carmarthen, there will be a third chapter. I was originally planning to end the story here, but she persuaded me otherwise. So if you enjoyed this and actually want it to continue, go thank my amazing beta.
> 
> If you didn't enjoy this, know that all fault lies upon my head.


End file.
